This Contentious Soul of Mine
by Desrathaus
Summary: Shepard is just good at surviving. Mindoir, Akuze, and eventual Shenko. VERY eventual.
1. Yon Solitary Highland Lass

It was with a sickening crack that the monster's rifle butt connected with his skull. Shepard watched, cowering out of sight, her normal whimpers catching in her throat. "Don't you dare make a noise," he had hissed, just moments ago, when he tucked her away into her current hiding spot. And now, he was crumpled on the floor, that twisted creature above him. And when it pointed its rifle down at his broken form, bullets unloading into his chest as the weapon lit up the room, she did exactly as she was told, silently studying the batarian's face as she did.

Shepard had never seen a batarian before, but right now, she was certain that they were the most sickening and vile things she had ever seen.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she did her best to respect her father's last wish. She would live. She would survive, but first, she just had to shut the fuck up. Not a peep, not a sigh, not one single tear. Not one of those four eyes on that monster would spot her. But even as she steadied her breathing, holding back another whimper, Shepard could hear the mournful and pained wails of her mother, of her brothers, outside.

This couldn't be real. Could it? This sort of thing didn't happen to colonists. We were just innocent trailblazers, spreading humanity's influence into the Attican Traverse. At least, just this morning, they were that. Now they were poor, unfortunate souls, screeching at the tops of their lungs as they were hunted, beaten, taken. Those that put up too much of a fight were a liability. They could die for all the batarians cared, and usually, they did just that.

Like her father. Every muscle in her body was tensed as she watched, fighting against every fiber of her being to throw herself onto his corpse, cry into his bloodied shirt, beg the batarian to undo what he'd done, let these damned tears out no matter how much noise they made. Instead, she watched as he stalked around the room, seemingly searching for anyone else. For one terrifying moment, she could feel the heat radiate from his legs, smell his disgusting smell that she will never forget as he stood in front of the counter, apparently looking out of the window above it.

When he had finally turned, finally left their bullet-hole-ridden home, Shepard scrambled from the hiding spot like it was on fire, shaking her head and gasping for air and grabbing two fistfuls of his shirt and trembling, prayers and apologies pooring from her lips like the tears from her eyes.

This didn't happen to colonists.

Her hand reached up to turn his face to hers, resting against his cheek. "You're still warm," she whispered, the fact giving her a mixture of comfort and distress. This was still almost her father, almost his laugh and his smile and his warmth; almost his protection, his care. As she held him, it was all seeping away, his life filtering out between her fingers. No matter how tightly she clung to his arm, no matter how intensely she looked into his blank eyes, she knew she couldn't stop it. He was dying - dead, really - and there wasn't a damn thing in this universe she could do to keep him.

God. Where was Andrew? And Kyle? They'd know what to do right now. She and Andrew would come up with... something, and Kyle would... she sighed. _Oh, Dad._ Shepard's hand that had been clutching his shirt found something solid and metal under the cloth. Gingerly she searched for it, uncovering a locket. It was the bit of sentimentality that Dad had allowed himself. In fact, Shepard could only remember him showing her it once. And he had opened it and spoke in a very nonchalant way about the images inside, but she could tell by the glimmer in his eye when he looked at it that it meant the world to him.

One side was a picture of she and Andrew and Kyle. Shepard was no more than two, and clearly had no idea what was going on when the shot was taken. Kyle's gaze was steady off to the left, as was Andrew's, though his hands itched at his formal wear. Shepard had told him the picture made the three of them look slightly dysfunctional, but it made her father smile when he looked at it. The other side was a picture of Dad and Mom at their wedding, Dad's face controlled, even, but his eyes as always betraying his elation. Shepard's mother grinned more openly at the camera, though she gripped frustradedly at her cumbersome but beautiful gown. Shepard wasn't sure how much it had costed to find a traditional photographer instead of a holographer for both occasions, but the newly wedded Mrs. Shepard had insisted on it. Something about the 'feeling of a real moment in your hands', she had said. Andrew and Kyle thought it was corny when she told them. Shepard, though, saw her father's eyes do that glimmer thing again and she knew Mom had just put into words what Dad couldn't.

Shepard didn't think twice. Reaching around his still warm neck, she unclasped the chain, gripping protectively around the freed locket. She figured she ought to allow herself a little bit of sentimentality, too. She tucked it into her pocket, her father's blood coating her pants as it had coated her forearm. She wanted to show him some honor, give him some decency. Dad didn't deserve to die on the floor of their livingroom at the hands of some ugly bastard. Eventually, she came to terms with the fact that she could do nothing for him but grant him his last wish.

So she stood from the body after giving him a last hug, lingering for the memory of his fading heat. In her best attempt at stealth, she peered from the window, eyes widening at the sight outside. Those that weren't killed, she concluded, were in for a much worse fate. It all became much more surreal to her as Shepard noticed, face by face, the friends and neighbors she had greeted just this morning.

Suddenly her legs began to ache, and her hands gripped restlessly to the blinds. She should do... _something_. Not standing here, next to her dead father, hiding inside as her friends are slaughtered.

But do what? Shepard wasn't a hero. Oh, what was that movie she and Andrew had just watched? Blasto! She wasn't Blasto, the fearsome hanar spectre. She sure as hell wasn't about to run out into the heart of town, a "gun in each tentacle". Hand. Whatever. And she most definitely couldn't get away with saying "This one doesn't have time for your solid waste excretions". Thinking about it now, though, this place could really use a hero.

What were a bunch of farming colonists supposed to do? Throw some fertilizer in their eyes? Run at them with a gardening hoe? There were a handful of people in this town that even owned weapons. Even then, they were shitty things, used only to scare off the occasional varren when they got too close to the livestock, and in more unlucky times, wound a nathak. Dad occasionally had to-

Dad has a gun.

Shepard spun around, turning quickly towards her parents' room. There was most definitely a gun in there somewhere. What she was going to do with it once she found it, she wasn't exactly sure. The only things she'd shot were varren, and those space beetles, and even that was with a BB Gun. She'd never killed another sentient being. But if she had to... just as they shot her father, she'd shoot them.

Ultimately, she found the pistol tucked deeply away in the back of their closet. Picking it up, she silently shifted it between her hands, slightly struck by the weight. In all of those action vids, these things were slung around like paper mache. Holding it in her hand, however, Shepard realized that there would be quite a lot of adjusting going on if she were to have any chance. She exited the bedroom, the pistol held tightly in her hand. This time, she checked the back window, behind which she had heard her mother, begging for Kyle's life. Shepard swallowed, and then lifted up the blinds.

She immediately dropped them, pinching her eyes shut. That was indeed her mother, or at least her body. Her broken form laid in a puddle of her own blood, and Shepard had to look through the splatters of it on the window. Silently, she moved to the back door, opening it and slowly making her way to her body. Her breath caught in her throat when out of the corner of her eye, she saw a batarian, Andrew at his knees.

With a quick step back, Shepard slammed her back against the door frame, peering around the corner. Andrew was silent as he was hit across the face by the batarian's rifle. The batarian, however, was making a loud show of his enjoyment, screaming at him in some strange, gurgling language. God, this wasn't happening. This was all some terrible nightmare. Shepard would eventually jerk herself from her sleep, and she'd find herself in her bed, warm and comfortable, sighing in relief. Her parents weren't dead. Her brother wasn't on the brink of death. Everything was fine.

Snap out of it, Shepard. Denial isn't going to get you anywhere. Squeezing the pistol with both hands, she raised it, firing. The first shot grazed him on the shoulder, drawing both his attention as well as Andrew. The next shot caught him in his arm, the third in his stomach, and the fourth, as he doubled over, in the crown of his head. It was bloody, pulpy explosion that caught Andrew in the blast radius.

Nearly dropping the pistol, Shepard scrambled to Andrew's side. "Hey, Sy," he whispered, showing his stunning lack of teeth. She could see him supress a wince as his lips brushed his gums. "Didn't think you'd take playing hero this far." He smiled at her, though it was not reciprocated. Instead, Shepard cupped the back of his head with one hand, leaning her head on his shoulder in a gentle yet desperate hug. "God, Andrew... Mom, and-and Dad..." her quavered momentarily and she sighed, her body shaking with the effort.

"Sydel, I... I'm scared." His brows knitted momentarily together and Shepard squeezed him to her even more tightly. "Please, Andrew, stay with me. I need you here." She leaned back, her hand still at the base of his skull. "For comic relief, at the least." He smiled up at her weakly, though his eyes couldn't focus on her. "Be careful, Sy. You were always strong. Now you'll just have to be strong enough for all of us." His head drifted to the side to allow him to look down at Sydel's hand. He grabbed it, squeezing in a reassuring manner, before his grip relaxed. Shepard allowed herself a moment before she collapsed against his body, muffling her sobs against his chest.

This didn't happen to colonists.

With a trembling hand, she wiped the batarian brains from his face, smeared his own blood from his chin, and laid him down next to Mom. She glanced around the house, checking for batarians. After not seeing any, she sighed, turning back to the bodies. They deserved a grave, at least. Certainly not the full six feet, she didn't have that time. But for the three bodies she still called family, she would make time.

And what about Kyle? Mom had been begging the batarians to spare him, take her instead. _They certainly took her_, Shepard thought bitterly as she looked down at her body. Grabbing her mother's jaw, she turned her face towards her, and was met with deep-purple eyes, swollen shut. Her nose was pressed sideways against her face, and blood splattered down over her mouth and chin. As she studied her face, Shepard's own mouth contorted into a deep frown as her body found the tears for this. Her very own mother...

Jerking away from the body as she turned to her left, Shepard readied her pistol: she heard a noise. Backing away towards the side of the house she'd already checked, she checked once before sprinting silently to the other corner of the house. She held her breath as she listened for the distinct gurgles. Once she heard those sickening voices, Shepard took off into the nearby orchard, her legs shaking as she did. How long could a body run on adrenaline? She had a feeling she'd be finding out.

As Shepard heard another noise, she tensed. She had been perched in a tree for a few hours, straddling a scrawny limb and praying that batarians didn't have heat vision or some shit. If that was the case, though, she would've been spotted a long time ago. A batarian had wandered passed, gurgling into his headset, and Shepard felt her breath catch in her throat again. How long could she keep this up?

There had to be help coming. The Alliance, at least. Shepard wasn't naive - she knew the local guards couldn't defend against stuff like this. Shepard had seen the gunships, and the improvised garrisons. The batarians, as vile as they were, came prepared. On occasion, Shepard could see far enough through the thick leaves of the tree to note the people, towards the heart of town, being herded into the batarians' ships like cattle.

God, she had to do something. Those were her friends. Her neighbors. The only people she'd ever known. she was shaken from her thoughts as she heard another voice, this time, one she'd understood. Peering through the leaves with as little shifting as possible, Shepard sighed. It was one of the Officers, Mike Gascon, and he was speaking in a hoarse whisper to someone on his headset. As he neared, she could make out 'Alliance' and 'batarians' and 'slaves'. Slowly, Shepard slid from her sanctuary reluctantly.

She was soon met with the barrell of an assualt rifle and the beginnings of a threat before Gascon recognized her, lowering his weapon. "You're that Shepard, girl, right? How'd you survive? Them damn four-eyed freaks are all over!" His whispers came out more like incredulous hisses, and he gripped her shoulder. "I-I... my Dad, he hid me, and... well, I climbed in that tree and was there for a couple of hours."

"Where's your father now?"

She lowered her eyes, shook her head.

"I... I'm sorry kid."

"Is the Alliance here?" Gascon was apparently shocked by her focus, as it took him a moment to respond. "They're just outside the border, but there's no way for them to get through with their numbers. The batarians were far more prepared for this than we ever were." He looked down at her hands, silently noting her pistol with a gesture of his hand. "I dug it out of my parents' closet. Not a lot, but... I owe it my life." She gave it a reaffirming squeeze before meeting Gascon's eyes again.

"I wish you didn't have to go through all this, kid. I wish there was a way outta this." He ran a hand over his cropped blond hair, his other hand holding his rifle loosely. "Well, we can't wait for the Alliance," Shepard said, glancing towards the center of town. "And there's no way we can fight 'em off." Gascon gave a slight huff as he turned back towards her. "And what option does that leave us?"

"We need to get away."

"You're makin' it sound awfully simple, Shepard." She grabbed his wrist, dragging him into the rows of trees. "I heard something," she hissed, and they both chose a tree, pressing their back to it. Both sighed when they heard the muffled but identifiable noise of a human speaking. The batarians, Shepard thought, wouldn't be this careless. Either they were almost done, or the Alliance was serving as enough of a distraction.

"Gascon?" the voice hissed. Gascon stepped from the orchard. "Hendricks. I found a survivor."

"Yeah. Me, too." He pointed a stiff thumb over his shoulder at a couple of women, probably in their mid-thirties. The apparent sisters were gripping tightly to each other's hand, white knuckles showing through the grime on their skin. "What are we gonna do, Gascon?"

"We're getting out," Shepard interrupted. Hendricks seemed taken aback momentarily, but Gascon just studied her with a smirk on his face. "Alright. Your dad was a good man. And I see a lot 'a him in you. You gotta plan?" Shepard stared at him for a moment, then looked back to Hendricks. "I'll think of one."


	2. Some Natural Sorrow, Loss, or Pain

With the realization that he was trailing along after some kid like a lost puppy came a smile from Officer Gascon. It was only momentary, slightly sheepish, and completely hidden from view. Sydel was how old anyway - sixteen? - and had half of the local guards following her (even if that was only two), along with a handful of colonists. Why the hell didn't someone put her in charge a long time ago?

Just the look in her eyes gave Gascon the strong hope that they'd be getting out of this. Not the slightest glint of doubt or fear; just unbridled determination, with the distant flicker of hate. Honestly, Gascon wouldn't want to be the batarians right now. Sydel looked at 'em like she was getting ready to rip out their intestines - or whatever those damn aliens had - and strangle them with it. With her teeth.

But he wasn't naive. He could look at the batarians, see the blue shimmer of their shields, and know that the weapons they had weren't cut out for it. Hell, last week, he struggled to kill a damned varren with his shitty little military-issued pistol that wasn't even supposed to see any action. They were just some little farming colony, after all. Who the fuck planned for slavers? Gascon just hoped that Sydel wasn't as naive as she looked. As strongly as she held on to that pistol from her dad, he silently prayed that she didn't think it made her indestructible. With every glance over her shoulder, she was looking more and more suspicious of every wind that whistled through the trees, of every shadow that shifted out of the corner of her eye.

So maybe she wasn't all that naive. Maybe they did have a chance. Gascon had wondered exactly how that pistol fell into her hands if her parents were still around, and maybe that gave him his answer. Maybe they were gone, and maybe at that moment, any modicum of naivete she had was washed away.

In which case, he just wanted those damned batarians even more.

"Sydel," Gascon's patrol partner, Hendricks, called out, looking just as suspicious as Shepard but much more frazzled about it. "Should we hold out for the Alliance? Maybe we can-"

"Alliance can't get through," she answered, and despite her cutting him off, the words were gentle enough that Hendricks wasn't offended. "We can't hang around while they're trying to get around the batarian defenses. We need to go to them." Her fingers tightened around her pistol momentarily, Gascon noted, as she looked back towards the settlement. "We were lucky to slip out the way we did... and we can't go back." The last note was with both resolution and regret, and Hendricks didn't question her.

Looking to his immediate right, Gascon checked on Stan, their little insurrectionist. That asshole had insisted on questioning everything the kid did. That is, until Sydel had the shields of one of the batarians down in a heartbeat and was pumping rounds into it before anyone could even get their weapon out. Then, every time he opened his mouth and she gave him that look that was 1/4 expectance, 1/4 acceptance, and 1/2 intimidation, his words were much more respectful than Gascon had ever heard.

That batarian hadn't even stood a chance, though. Her omni-tool had fried those shields, somehow, probably something her father had taught her. Gascon didn't doubt that that man had the ability to make the damn 'tool for her. Not many colonists got them, but if anyone knew how to use it, it'd be the Shepards.

Stan had stared straight ahead, though Gascon felt that he knew he was being watched. His jaw set in a defiant angle, he walked forward. "The batarians'll probably make another sweep," Stan said, the clenching of his jaw clear in his words. "I don't think they have the luxury," Shepard said over her shoulder. "The Alliance is drawing a lot of their attention and resources. If we can just get far enough passed the colony borders, we might be able to bunker down and wait for them to leave. They have their colonists."

Suddenly, one of the women Hendricks found spoke up, "W-we're just gonna let them leave with our neighbors? Or friends? Or family? Sydel, you know better!" The other woman wrapped an arm around her shoulder, squeezing. "Please, Alice, she's-"

"My baby's on that ship! And my husband... and you want us to just leave?"

"Mrs. Bates, I understand. We've all lost a lot this day. Some of us have lost everything. But we haven't lost our lives. If we go back there, though, we will." Shepard's tone was even and gentle, and the woman's crazed eyes seemed to relax. "I- okay. That doesn't make it any easier, but... okay." Her shoulder's hunched under her sister's arm and she let out hushed sobs. "Talitha will be okay, alice... we'll find her."

She didn't seem to believe the words. Neither did her sister.


	3. O'er the Sickle Bending

Alliance patrol showed up after a day.

The six of them had found an old barn on the edge of town to hide. Hendricks for a moment was sure they were going to die when a small batarian patrol came towards them. Gascon had to clamp a hand over his mouth when he began to babble, and had to knock him unconscious when he began to yell. "He'll thank me later," he told Sydel, smiling down at her. She returned the expression.

The batarians, though apparently supposed to do a final sweep, merely stood at the edge of the field, shooting the space cows that grazed there. Stan seemed to take special offense to this and gritted his teeth harder with every shot fired. Their gurgly laughter brought about the same reaction. Mrs. Bates had fallen asleep very early into their camp, and her sister had her propped up on one knee as a pillow.

"How long do you think they'll be?" Shepard whispered to Gascon. He answered with another question, "How many cows are left?"

Without hesitation, "Twelve."

"They'll probably just spend enough time out here to act like they did their job, then get back to town. I do the same thing," he said, a sheepish grin coming across his tired features. Everyone seemed to have aged years since the last time Shepard had seen them.

Hendricks' worry lines were finally gone from his youthful features, though Shepard was sure that stress would be the death of him. She glanced momentarily at Gascon to see a surprisingly intense stare, as if he was studying her. Clearly he saw her surprise and began to explain. "You're a strong young woman, Shepard. I wish this didn't have to happen to you, but it's certainly shown you to be one hell of a survivor, and leader." Shepard, at a loss for words, just nodded and smiled.

The bullets ceased for a moment, and the batarians began to gurgle again, this time with an occasional squeak. Shepard wasn't sure what that meant, but she hoped it roughly translated to "Let's get out of here." She found herself almost holding her breath as she listened to them fade into the distance. The next half-hour was spent looking towards the settlement, waiting for the ship to take off. Shepard never saw it though.

Night came pretty quickly, and Shepard could feel her legs quaking under her as she paced. Her plan hadn't extended this far. How long were they supposed to wait? They couldn't return to the colony, and they certainly couldn't count on them not coming back. "We'll take shifts," she finally said. "We need to stay ready. There's no telling what's up ahead. We've been lucky so far, and we need to keep it that way." Shepard looked at Stan. "You're familiar with barns, right, Stan?"

"Yeah."

"He's awfully _familiar _with the _cows_ is what I heard," Gascon said, smirking up at him. He was lounged back against an empty palate stack short enough to rest his elbow on. Stan glowered at him. "Those were just rumors, you dickwad! I ain't-"

"That's enough, everyone," Shepard said, smiling momentarily over her shoulder before returning a serious gaze to Stan. "But you know where there's probably something we can eat?" Stan scratched his chin for a moment, contemplating. "Well, I don't know if the space cows' systems are all that different, but the pellets they eat are grains. Not very filling, but it'll keep us alive."

"And that's all we need at this point." Shepard nodded, signaling to Stan to find what he could. "Be quiet about it, though," Shepard said, a solemn tone in her voice. "We don't need to attract any attention back to this place." It was several hours before Stan had dragged everything up. Gascon had feigned sleeping, Hendricks was actually asleep, and the other conscious woman was pinned under her sleeping and emotionally unstable sister. Shepard was planning rotations, of course.

"Alright. We'll have to rotate between the three of us," Shepard said, referring to Stan, Gascon, and herself. Gascon 'woke up' after she had begun talking, and immediately objected. "Shepard, you need to sleep. Me and beasty boy over here-" he smacked Stan on the ass, who was standing next to him where he sat, "-got it covered." Stan immediately took offense to this, steppping quickly away and yelling whatever obscenities he could think of at him. Shepard dove after him, covering his mouth and glaring into his confused eyes.

"Are you trying to get us killed?" she hissed, her knees pinning his wrists. "I've not come this far to be killed now, and I doubt you have either." There was a pause before Stan finally nodded against her hold. "Now go ahead and get your stress out, but use your indoor voice." She stood up from over top of him. "Actually, use your 'there-are-disgusting-fucking-aliens-after-us voice'." She brushed off her knees, then continued speaking.

"Alright, I'll take first shift, Gascon's got second, Stan's got third. We don't really have any way to tell time, so you're just gonna have to eyeball it."

It took some arguing with Gascon before Shepard finally convinced him that she was a big girl and could manage four hours of consciousness. She could tell, however, that his eyes were on her when he should've been sleeping. "Go to sleep, Gascon," Shepard whispered over her shoulder.

"You first."

She simply shook her head. "I can do this, Gascon. Really."

And he was fairly silent after that. Shepard wouldn't have put any money on him actually going to sleep, but he at least accepted that she wasn't going to either. It wasn't very long before Shepard was fighting her own eyelids, though. _Stop it, Shepard. You fought for this. It's three hours. Yeah, the adrenaline's wearing off, and yeah, there's a nice bag of feed just waiting for you to rest your head against it, but you've got a job to do. Watch for batarians. These people are counting on you._

She was successful. For the most part. But the next thing she knew, Gascon is carrying her over to the feed bag. "Just sleep," he whispered, smiling down at her. At least, she thought he smiled. She couldn't have been sure. Her eyes refused to focus, and he was just some shimmery image when she looked up at him, as if there were a wall of turbulent water between them. "Gascon," she protested, but the word probably just came out as a mumble, because Gascon just seemed to smile wider. "Don't worry, kid," and when her head hit the feed, she was asleep.

The next thing she remembered was Gascon's face again, urgently shaking her. Her hand reflexively went to her pistol, but she felt the weight of Gascon's hand overtop of it. "No, no. Alliance. Quick, get up." Shepard stumbled to her feet, shaking her face to ward off sleep. She almost fell down the ladder to the ground, slipping before catching herself. God, it was the Alliance. She was pretty sure blue was her favorite color.

But then regret and anger settled somewhere in her gut. Why didn't they get here sooner? Why didn't they fight? If this patrol could get through, couldn't they have gotten here before her mother, and her father, and Andrew-

Some deep despair that Shepard had never felt before fell over her. Suddenly she just felt like dying. Why'd she fight so hard for this anyway? She could feel the sting of tears at the edges of her eyes, the lump in her throat as she fought it. The soldiers just smiled that sad smile, ushering them into some enormous vehicle. Gascon must've thought they were tears of joy, and Shepard decided to just let him think that.


	4. The Melancholy Fit Shall Fall

The voyage to Earth was a long one.

The Traverse, Shepard decided, could kiss her ass. And not just kiss it; that damn frontier needed to make her ass remember that kiss 'til the day it died as the most intense, rejuvenating experience it could remember. To hell with the Attican Traverse. There was apparently, somewhere on the East Coast of the United States, a woman to whom Shepard was a niece. This part of the family tree was largely unexplored, with little mapping or mentioning on her parents' part. But, as she had been frequently remembering for the past few weeks, the part of the family tree she _was_ familiar with had been obliterated.

Now, she was just one scraggly, scrawny branch. Not even a branch - a twig - left by its lonesome to rebuild and grow from the charred remains of the trunk it grew from. Shepard was doing her best to be a strong little twig, though she was quickly discovering that the galaxy that existed far beyond her confines of Mindoir was less than hospitable to those delicate, easily snapped tree limbs.

Gascon and Hendricks and Stan and Mrs. Bates and _other_ Mrs. Bates, well... they were probably still on the SSV Einstein. Maybe already back on Mindoir. The only one she got to say good-bye to at all was Gascon, and she was fine by that. He'd told her to watch herself, because Mom and Dad sure as hell were, and the last thing she wanted was to be haunted by her own parents. He still called her 'Shepard' and 'kid', but that was kind of alright by her.

After reaching Earth, a planet that beforehand, she had never even stepped foot on, the social worker that had accompanied her led her to a rapid transit hub, where the two of them travelled to the home of a woman Shepard had never even met. Hell, she didn't even know what she looked like. Would she look like Shepard? Would she look like Mom? She wasn't sure if she could handle that. But every time the social worker noticed her getting too deep into thought, he'd squeeze her shoulder, more reassuring than anything, and smile down at her.

Robert Jackson. He was a rather tall man, with a thick moustache that distracted Shepard when he talked. On certain occasions, he would be wearing glasses - when he read, or when the two of them were having an important conversation - that would magnify his eyes to bug-like proportions, drawing the attention of Shepard away from the subject once again. Well, this was one of those certain occasions.

Shepard didn't really mind it. It was a bit of a reprieve from what her usual thoughts were, and she really didn't want to relive all that. Maybe, if she didn't think about it for long enough, she could convince herself that those things never happened. That on some distant planet in the Attican Traverse, her parents were living, thriving, and it was at the height of harvest season, when the air took on that special scent and everything was a warm shade of red or brown or yellow, and-

"Sydel." Jackson's shoulder squeeze was a little more insistent this time, and his gaze was less reassuring and more concerned. "Did you hear me?" And honestly, Shepard could barely even hear _that_ as his facial hair danced along with his words almost of its own volition, its stark white shade contrasting against Jackson's tanned, aged skin. "Sorry, Mr. J. I was... I was thinking."

"You really shouldn't do that, dear," he said, another squeeze to accompany it. Shepard was beginning to despise the weight of his hand on her shoulder. Who the hell was _he_, anyway? Some guy that was assigned to her, a transport guide more than anything. Sure, he'd been told about Mindoir, and he was just like all the rest of the people she'd been through since.

First, their eyes would meet her as they would any other person: with impatience. With disgust. She was a simple little colony kid after all, no one worth spending time on. But in a split second, her face would register somewhere deep in the recesses of their mind, re-evaluating the deep cuts on her skin, the harsh contrast of her bruises, and then suddenly she wasn't so disgusting. She was just pitiful. Their eyes would soften, and their head would cock gently to the side, and their voice - oh God, their voice - would be the most sickeningly condescending baby talk she had ever experienced. Her very existence warranted coddling, now. She hated it.

And she was beginning to hate Jackson over there, with his moustache and his bug eyes and his pity. Shepard didn't _need_ pity. She didn't _ask_ for pity. She didn't _want_ pity. In fact, she wanted everyone's pity to get shoved up all their respective asses, and any extra could go right up the Traverse's ass. If she had her way, there would be a lot more pitiful asses in this god forsaken galaxy.

But before she could continue her slightly violent and completely abstract reverie, she distantly heard Jackson's droning voice. "Now, dear, your Aunt Magdalene is welcoming you into her apartment of her own will. As a guest and relative, you should act as a respectful young dear, and do as she wishes. She is a very busy woman, your Aunt Magdalene, dear, and would truly appreciate it if you weren't daydreaming all the time, dear."

God, Shepard wanted to reach up and rip his dear moustache off, and shove it down his dear throat. Clearly, he could see the distance in her eyes, as he gave up all attempts to get her attention. Instead, his thick-fingered hand finally removed itself from her shoulder, and Shepard welcomed the cool air that soon replaced it. Finally. Now maybe she could really begin distracting herself. She had done a pretty good job of not thinking of... _that_, and she was slowly building up a defense for it.

Though, that defense, she realized, was translating itself into a rather hostile reaction to most any help. Hell, she had just imagined ripping off her caretaker's moustache and suffocating him with it. And it was... satisfying. She would have to keep it all mental, for now. No outbursts. She didn't need to be one of _those_ orphans. Those unstable ones, that _actually_ killed people with their own facial hair.

Orphan. The word even felt strange in her mind. And it was even more strange to think that it accurately described her. Her parents- no. No, that's not a good topic. Shepard will not cry on this transit vehicle. Not in front of Jackson, and not in front of these strangers. She _will not _ask for pity. She doesn't _need_ pity. And she'll be damned if she-

"We're nearly there, Sydel." Jackson's hand returned to her shoulder, though his signature squeeze was thankfully absent. "This next block, we'll get off." And they did, Shepard exiting first, with Mr. J lumbering close behind. Though she had been exposed to it getting on the public transit, Sydel wasn't sure if she could get used to the speed of everything on this planet. Mindoir was so... calm. Steady. Confined. Looking to her left, Sydel could see the horizon - well, a strip of it - between the hundreds of angular towers in her sight. She wasn't in Mindoir anymore. As she stood, she was shoved, receiving some 'ugh's and 'Move!'s from passerbys as they bustled along, their eyes on a datapad or their fingers pressed to their ear, seemingly listening to another person.

Shepard and Jackson had walked behind one such man on a call as they made their way to Aunt Magdalene's. He was a stocky man, short enough for Shepard to see over him, and he gestured wildly as he walked, less for the person on the other end's benefit and more for his own. And as he did so, he screamed his words or made such an ostentatious ass of himself that Shepard was sure someone would comment.

No one did, though. They were all in their seperate worlds, their seperate tasks, distant yet together. She must've been elbowed a dozen times by these people before she and Jackson made it into the safety of the much less crowded apartment building.

First, she was hit with the smell of the place. A heavy air hit her and she hesitated to inhale, fearful of what it might bring. With her next breath came a musky, aged smell, as if the apartment complex had been around in the 21st century. Jackson made a sharp left and began his slow chug towards the elevator. "This way, dear," he called over his shoulder. After calling the elevator, they waited for another moment, and Shepard took the time to study the interior. It wasn't like her prefab home, that was for certain. The lobby felt intensely empty, as if she and Jackson were the first beings to enter it in ages. Looking over her shoulder through the window, she checked to make sure people still bustled on the other side. It was beginning to feel like they had slipped into some alternate dimension.

The elevator chimed and its doors opened and Jackson's hand found her shoulder, leading her in. "She's on the fifth floor. Would you like to press the button?"

"Do you _want_ me to press the button?"

"Well, I thought it might mean something to you."

"... It's an elevator button."

"Fine, I'll press it." Jackson's hand left her shoulder and connected with the button almost violently, lighting it. "Just thought you might like a little sentiment is all. It is your aunt, but it's fine." His voice clearly betrayed his offense, and Shepard's clenching fists and jaw betrayed her own anger. To hell with Jackson. What did he know about sentiment? Shepard could still feel the weight of her father's locket, and that was thousands of times better than _pressing a fucking button _just because a woman whom she had never met and was distantly related to was on the other side. Fuck that button, and fuck Jackson.

The silence between them in the elevator was charged, and not a noise was heard until the elevator slowed to a halt, shifting Shepard's organs in the process. It beeped and the doors slid open. Jackson was the first out, launching himself forward quickly and stalking out to the right, his signature lumbering movement sped up significantly.

"Apartment 34E. This way." Shepard took note of the absence of 'dear' in his speech and smiled to herself. _Damn straight_. He stopped at the fourth door he checked, turning towards it and watching Shepard as she walked after him. "Oh, would you like me to knock on the door, too?" Shepard asked, sarcasm ringing clearly in her voice. Jackson glared back, his mouth opening and then snapping shut. His fist raised and rapidly knocked on the door, hanging still for a moment before it returned to his side. "Perish the thought, dear," he grounded out through clenched teeth in a cheery, clearly forced tone.

Again they stood silently. Shepard began to feel the unfamiliar weight of nervousness in her stomach. What would this woman think of her? Could she be kicked out? She realized she was being an insufferable little bitch lately, and Jackson couldn't really just leave her. But Aunt Magdalene couldn't either. Could she? Maybe Shepard should start being more polite. But she wasn't about to take anyone's pity. Especially not Aunt Magdalene's.

It was a long moment before the door opened and the two of them were met with the corpulent and rather heavily made up appearance of Aunt Magdalene, her eyes wide in expectance. After she looked at the pair, she clapped her hands together as an enormous set of lipstick-tinged teeth showed themselves between her brightly painted lips. "Oh, my! You're here! You must be Mr. Jackson," she said, her plump hand reaching out towards him. He smiled after a moment, his thoughts seemingly still on the button, and returned the gesture. "Yes, Miss Kushnir, and this of course is Sydel." Shepard could see his hand raise, as if to land on her shoulder, though he hesitated, ultimately letting it fall back to his side. _Damn straight_.

"Well come in, come in," Aunt Magdalene said as she waddled backwards, clearing the doorway. Jackson impatiently gestured for Shepard to enter first. She complied, and was hit with the powerful odor of cigarettes and bleach. It wasn't a pleasant combination, and Shepard contemplated breathing through her mouth before she was drawn into conversation by Aunt Magdalene. "Sit, you two," she insisted as she pointed at the couch a few paces from the door. Shepard let her bag slip from her shoulders and down to her side before putting it to rest on the nearby end table. She then followed Jackson to the seat, easing herself down. The cushions seemed to nearly eat her as she sat, finding herself quickly sinking into the couch. Neither of the adults seemed to notice as Aunt Magdalene perched herself in the opposite arm chair, forcing an expectant smile at Mr. Jackson that, as Shepard saw it, came off as more of a grimace.

"Well, ah, Miss Kushnir," Jackson began, sitting on the edge of the sofa. Clearly he had experienced the same trouble as Shepard was having. "Please, call me Mags," she said as she raised a halting hand, and Mr. Jackson smiled. "Alright... Mags. Sydel here," - he gestured to Shepard - "has been quite quiet and has kept to herself as of late." Aunt Mags - Shepard smiled to herself at the name - nodded as if understanding, though Shepard noticed a distinctly distant look in her eyes, as if she were focusing less on actually listening to Mr. Jackson and more on seeming like it. She commended her for her effort - Shepard didn't listen and didn't pretend to, either.

"Give her some time. We'll check in monthly. Well, I'll check in monthly. In the early stages like this, we'll have a weekly call as well, just to make sure Shepard and you are acclimatizing well to her arrival." Mr. Jackson's hands met in front of his legs as he sat forward, his elbows on his thighs. "Overall, we just want to make this process as seamless as possible." _Yeah, it's been a real seamless process so far, _dear, Shepard thought, momentarily glaring at him. How seamless was it supposed to be? Her home- No. Nope. Not here, not now. Suffice to say, the entire thing was covered in jagged, ripply seams and damn if Shepard was going to pretend it was anything else.

Aunt Mags continued to nod blankly, and as good as Jackson was at noticing Shepard's inattentiveness, he kept speaking as if he didn't recognize her distant gaze. The movement of her head had become mechanical, bobbing steadily. She had given up trying to do it intermittently and decided to play it safe, nodding constantly. Shepard studied her second chin as she did, the flesh smoothing and bunching repeatedly. Goodness, how long had it been? She tried to wriggle from the sofa's jaws without making to much of a scene. After discovering that it wouldn't be a simple process, she decided instead to crane her neck, searching to her left for any record of time. No such luck.

Finally, she embraced her fate as a meal for the couch, relaxing into its folds and quickly falling asleep to the sound of Jackson's voice.


End file.
